


You Can't Have Your Sweater Back

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny stares at Stiles, doing his best to ignore the body on the forest floor between them.  The body with half of its throat missing.  The body with a <i>bite mark</i> torn across its torso, a trail of intestines jumbled among the leaves, the loose end just touching Stiles' sneaker.  And he doesn't even look phased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Have Your Sweater Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cedelede](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedelede/gifts), [ladyleah33](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyleah33/gifts).



> Rated M for laaaaater chapters.

Danny stares at Stiles, doing his best to ignore the body on the forest floor between them. The body with half of its throat missing. The body with a _bite mark_ torn across its torso, a trail of intestines jumbled among the leaves, the loose end just touching Stiles' sneaker. And he doesn't even look phased.

 

“Werewolves,” Danny says at last, like he hasn't already said it five times, like Stiles hasn't just given a rambling, half-assed explanation.

 

“Werewolves,” Stiles answers.

 

“And this guy?” Danny just wants one more confirmation.

 

“Bad werewolf. Enemy Alpha. Probably would have torn me and Scott to shreds if you hadn't happened along.”

 

“And Scott is a -”

 

“Werewolf.”

 

“And Isaac?”

 

“Werewolf. And before you ask, Erica and Boyd, too.”

 

“Jackson.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Jackson, too. Although for awhile he was this lizard thing that had a real hard on for paralyzing people and slicing...them...across...”

 

Danny sees the second Stiles realizes he's put the pieces together.

 

“Okay, okay, yes, he did paralyze you. But to be fair, he's really, really sorry, and it wasn't actually his fault, because he was being controlled by Matt, who was -”

 

Danny turns on his heel and walks out of the woods, gets in his car, and drives home.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

Jackson is smart enough to get the hint and fuck the back off by the fifth time he calls and Danny doesn't answer. Danny has a reputation for being easy going – and he is – but that means the rare times he gets truly pissed off, it's not a pretty thing. Jackson knows this because Jackson is his best friend – the fact that Jackson is a goddamn liar, something Danny hates more than anything, isn't going to change that in the long run – but Stiles hasn't gotten that memo, because Stiles _never_ gets the memo, unless it suits his purpose.

 

So Stiles tracks him down at lunch, in the locker room where he's lifting weights, because he has no interest in sitting in the cafeteria, surrounded by people who have had no compunction over using him when they needed his skills, but couldn't respect him enough to let him in on why.

 

“Out, Stilinski,” he says evenly, as soon as he hears the sound of the door and recognizes the distinctive odor of Stiles' cologne. It's not a bad smell – clean and spicy, without being cloying; way better than what most of the lacrosse team wears, but it's the last thing he wants to smell right now.

 

“Dude!” Stiles' head appears above him, where Danny is pushing the weight bar up and down, his eyes wide and guileless. Danny isn't fooled for one second. Stiles wears his mask of awkward, joke cracking, self deprecation well, but Danny has known him since second grade, and unlike the rest of the school's population, he's well aware there's a deadly sharp brain behind those brown eyes, with a kind of wit that sometimes falls just this side of vicious. Danny isn't surprised at all that he's right in the center of this mess.

 

“Dude!” he says again. “You can't lift without a spotter! Do you know how friggin' dangerous that is?”

 

“Not as dangerous as unknowingly being surrounded by werewolves,” he says flatly.

 

Stiles has the grace to flush, just a quick run of red up his cheeks before it fades.

 

Danny continues his workout. “Door's that way. You hurry, you can probably still catch the tail end of Scott and Allison's 'we're not dating but no we really are' show.” Just because he didn't figure out the werewolf thing, doesn't mean he doesn't see other stuff.

 

“Nope, nope, nope. Jackson would kill me if you died because I left you here.”

 

Danny gives Stiles a look. “ _You're_ gonna spot me?”

 

“Hey! I'll have you know this slender frame is remarkably deceptive!”

 

The thing is, Danny knows. He's never sure if Stiles does it on purpose, or if he really does just have that bad of fashion sense, to wear clothes baggy enough that he looks like a tall, thin rail. But Danny plays lacrosse with Stiles, changes and showers in the same locker room as Stiles, and no matter how well Stiles uses locker doors and wall divides to hide behind, Danny has seen the muscle that lines his body. He's slender, but defined, and even his thinness is something of an illusion. If he let them, Stiles' arms could make Danny's mouth water on a daily basis.

 

The truth of the matter is that Stiles is gorgeous, even if Danny is somehow the only person aware of the fact. All hands and eyes and lips – lips which, if Danny were less of, well, _Danny_ , he'd label made for certain activities involving dicks and mouths and tongues. He's coltish, and not fully grown into himself, not to mention deep enough in the closet that Danny isn't sure Stiles even realizes he's as into cock as he is tits, but Danny thinks that one day, Stiles is going to be lethal in the romance department, and likely leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

 

Which is why Danny gets so pissed when Stiles starts his “do gay guys find me attractive” campaign. If Danny thought for once second that Stiles was even remotely interested in his relative attractiveness to Danny, in particular, he would have dragged him under the bleachers and shown him exactly how good an open closet door could be. But Stiles wasn't even seeing Danny when he asked, just a big, flashing sign that said 'Gay Male', and that shit pisses Danny of to no end. Like he's some gay Yoda representation of every guy who likes dick. He maybe thinks a little less kindly of Stiles after that.

 

“Earth to Danny. See, dude, this is _exactly_ why you need a spotter.” Danny realizes he's been vacantly staring up at Stiles for god knows how long.

 

“Fine,” he snaps. “Spot me. But I don't want to hear any of you guys' bullshit.”

 

He knows its a futile request. Stiles talks like he breathes. Constantly. He mentally starts counting minutes along with reps, and Stiles doesn't even make it to three before he opens his mouth and runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

 

“You know he was trying to protect you, right?”

 

Danny just grunts as he pushes the weight bar up again.

 

“That? What you saw? That was nothing. Small potatoes. Dude, for months there I thought I was going to die on a daily basis. And not just from werewolves. Allison's granddad beat the shit out of me. He _electrocuted_ Erica and Boyd. Trust me, dude. You were better off in the dark.”

 

“Trust you?” Danny seats the bar and sits up, grabbing a towel and taking a swipe at the sweat on his face. “Fuck you, Stilinski.” He could excuse most of them – Scott, Allison, the wonder triplets; even Stiles. They were acquaintances, lab partners, team members, but not necessarily friends. But Jackson and Lydia? That hurt more than he wanted to examine, that he had been left by the wayside.

 

“Come on, Danny.” Stiles follows him to his locker, stands too close while Danny pulls a clean shirt over his head. “Don't be mad.”

 

He slams his locker shut. “What are you doing here, Stiles? Really. You're not exactly the best person for delicate conversations.”

 

Stiles' mask disappears between one blink and the next, leaving his face serious, and a touch sad. “Look. You and Lydia...you're kind of important to Jackson, okay? He needs you on his side. It's a long story. Which I'll tell you, I promise. But he needs to know you still...that he still has you.”

 

Danny rolls his eyes. “Jackson let me snot all over him when I realized I was gay. He beat the shit out of the first homophobic asshole who tried to jump me after school. He's not losing me over this. He should know better.”

 

“Yeah, well, he's had some serious hits recently. He doesn't need one more. So come out and tell him that yourself, okay?”

 

Danny hefts his book bag over his shoulder and starts toward the door. “I'll talk to him in chem. That's all I'm promising right now.”

 

When Stiles doesn't follow him, Danny knows there's another shoe yet to drop. He turns back around to see Stiles watching him, his mouth stuck between open and closed.

 

“Spit it out, Stilinski.”

 

Stiles shifts from one foot to the other, swallows and nods. “Derek wants to talk to you.”

 

“You mean your 'Cousin Miguel'?” Danny throws in air quotes just to be an ass, and Stiles flushes for the second time.

 

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

 

“Whatever, Stilinski. What, is he deciding whether or not he needs to kill me now that I know?”

 

Stiles looks like he really wants to be able to answer in the negative, but can't. At least not truthfully. Harsh, but at least Danny knows how to prepare now.

 

“Ahh...” Stiles starts, but Danny cuts him off before he can try to mediate the situation.

 

“Fine, but it will have to be tomorrow. I have to study for the Calculus test tonight.”

 

He doesn't wait for Stiles to answer, just walks away from him for the second time in less than twenty four hours. He has things to do.


End file.
